Nightfall
by MerelyPassingBy
Summary: When the last stronghold of Light falls the winner takes it all. Yet victory can be quite bittersweet. Mild BellatrixVoldemort [not the other way around] if you squint. One shot.


_Nightfall_ by Merely Passing By

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**Disclaimer:** Anything recognisable as someone else's work _is_ someone else's work - in this case J.K.Rowling's. Also the story should probably be perceived as an AU, as Mrs Rowling is never going to let anything like this happen...unless she decides to really surprise the readers.

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Nightfall - his favourite part of day.

The sky blood-red, streaked with thin stripes of torn white clouds like old whip scars. Last crimson rays colour the deep surrounding forest black and paint the waters of the vast glassy lake strange surreal hues. The scarlet light floods the grounds and lights up every single of innumerable windows facing westwards, making the huge, medieval castle look as if a furious fire was roaring inside.

On top of the highest castle tower, which is missing a roof, the dying sunlight illuminates a single figure, standing unmoving, statue-like, black robes billowing gently in a warm summer evening's breeze. Two ruby orbs gaze, unblinking, into the bleeding sun from a thin reptilian face, whose pallid skin has for once a healthy pink tinge as every living, breathing human being's should.

There is a blood-curling scream from directly outside the tower's door downstairs followed by a clatter of running feet, stopped dead, literally, by a well-chosen two-word incantation. The figure inside tenses instantly, hand diving for a wand like a pasty eel into underground lake, and then relaxes, a wry smile twisting almost non-existent lips into an ugly grimace of mixed amusement and disgust.

Like rats! Six hours past and the place is still swarming with little mudbloods like some damned termitarium! By Merlin if he found one himself...death would be a merciful and desired alternative!  
Is he perchance cursed to be always surrounded by such incompetence? Is it truly so difficult to take care of a few children? To finally locate them and get rid of them?

Why, what a nice game of hide and seek!

With a bit of imagination to search thoroughly...picturing the hidden ones' thoughts and decisions...seeing the proverbial gearwheels of anxious minds turning rapidly in search of a safe haven...

The red glowing slits turn distant, although no onlooker would be able to tell the difference – they are way too unhuman to show emotions and turns of mind in a recognisable way.

He used to be so good at the game. To hunt them all down, nearing their hiding-place like a vulture, while a scared child lays unmoving, not daring to breathe, heart pumping wildly as if it all were much more than an innocent game. He loved it...only the others for some reasons did not. He used to excel at hiding too. Once they couldn't find him for...couldn't...find...couldn't...

Pale spidery fingers clench and unclench in silent frustration. Not that it matters. He hasn't forgotten, nor is he suffering from any sort of insanity induced memory lapses, though he wouldn't bother to persuade anyone otherwise - he couldn't care less. This part of him has been...detached. Not only memories, but feelings, emotions, needs, hates, dreams and fears...all simply as that: as good as dead.

And he knows that this one is dead indeed - destroyed, annihilated, eradicated - for he has been informed about the senile fool wearing his precious ring, his heritage, his trophy - **his!!**

Or perchance this particular fragment is still hidden somewhere else? Perhaps gone with its cache as well?

Might it have been the diary? His first grand experiment with Dark Arts improvisation, so stupidly sacrificed by Lucius in one moment of conceited idiocy...destroyed by

Potter!

Why, yes...Potter... The boy who..._died_.

This time the black-robed slim figure chuckles: it is an odd, hissing, strangled sound. The sun set behind the treetops of Forbidden Forest minutes ago having returned its former attentive observer his corpse-like appearance, scarlet eyes glowing eerily from a ghastly pale face as if with a light of their own. They shine with pure malice, seeing not a rapidly darkening sky, but a deadly pale, bloodied boy with his glasses askew, face cowered in sweat and dirt, tear trails making him look like a very pathetic clown indeed. The accursed boy kneeling beside his two fallen friends, the girl still breathing, yet her mind damaged beyond repair; kneeling ten metres from the spot where seventeen years ago it all started...where now it all must end.

_  
The power the Dark Lords knows not...oh, yes: love. Have you figured out how to kill me with love, Harry?_

_No? Don't trouble yourself. I haven't either._

_Avada Kedavra!_

And the half-human apparition, leaning his bony elbows on a ruined windowsill, chuckles again, scaring an owl that had strayed from the nearby Owlery. Along with the owl's screech yet another high pitched scream is heard from somewhere deep down inside the castle.

Hogwarts!

Hogwarts – the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hogwarts – the safe haven and last stronghold of Light.

Hogwarts. Hogwarts – _his!_

_...A mass of black, flashes of bone-white - his death commando in its full splendour, strolling into the grandly lit Great Hall..._

_...surprised faces turning in dawning dread towards the ancient huge doors falling..._

_...falling...falling... and hitting the stone floor with a sound reminding of thunder._

_As in a slow motion everyone ceases moving, talking, breathing..._

_...silence...amazement...uncomprehending astonishment..._

_...time freezes..._

_A knife chinks against cold marble and suddenly everyone is moving, screaming, shoving, hiding underneath tables – oh, you can _never_ hide from the Dark Lord!_

_Some are trying to fight, and they fall first...Some are trying to run, but the only exit is blocked and no one dares move closer to their nightmares personified standing on the doorstep..._

_...standing silent, patient...awaiting...flanked by trolls and dementors._

_Deadly._

_And here and now begins the sorting of goats from the sheep._

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A new sound starts penetrating the dead silence of the early night. There are screams and cries, but they aren't ceasing, quite on the contrary, they are gaining in intensity and volume, accompanied by occasional bursts of mad, drunken or simply sadistic laughter. Now, this isn't a hunt for strayed, lost children anymore, this is a celebration.

The snake-faced spectre can very vividly picture what kind of event is taking place in the Great Hall now and the mental image which would send most men retching brings another small, fleeting smile to the thin white lips. However, the deformed grimace disappears immediately to be replaced with a look of annoyed disdain.

_Celebration_.

Why should they be celebrating? What reason - no - what _right_ do _they_ have to be celebrating?

Thirteen years ago no one cared. For thirteen _cursed_ years of _Hell._

Three years ago. No one was celebrating then: old ruined cemetery full of fear, panic and revulsion _oh so_ glad to be hidden beneath a mask.

They may hope to delude him, but for Lord Voldemort every mind and soul is an open book to read...to burn.

With a cacophony of cracks and pops the circle of black robes was gone, happy to leave as fast as possible, afraid of being punished for Potter's escape. All gone without any second thoughts, leaving the newly reborn Dark Lord to a dizzying mixture of rage, frustration and joyful exhilaration.

Now one boy is dead, one school seized. And this time there is a victorious middle-age army's euphoria over a city free to be plundered!

He fleetingly wonders whether they are even celebrating the fulfilment of the prophecy – the last step leading to the ultimate victory of their Lord and Master. If yes, it is because they hope to be able to carry on murdering, plundering and raping, finally without risking a life sentence in Azkaban at least.

The shrouded figure turns, sighs, which comes out as an angry hiss, and slowly creeps across the small circular room and down the spiral staircase: the Grim Reaper without his scythe, black polished shoes clicking like a perfect metronome, practical leather hem of pitch-black velvety robes sweeping the stone floor with a sound not unlike a snake hissing.

Similarly clad men bow deep when he passes, some muttering a quick, yet humble "my Lord", some poke heads out of darkened rooms, hurriedly trying to hide the fact that they have been pillaging the castle's riches. They needn't try – Lord Voldemort sees and remembers everything and shows no mercy.

"My Lord!" A shrill worshipful cry so unlike any other.

There are times when the unexpected, fanatical salute makes even him start, especially when she simultaneously throws herself at his feet, nearly tripping him - which is most inappropriate and had it been anyone else they would have been severely punished...

"Bella," the half-human monster hisses, having caught his balance by momentarily pressing the left shoulder of her kneeling form.

"Master."

Whenever she kisses the hem of his robes there is something in her eyes that he cannot grasp, something hidden in her eagerness, in the reluctance to let go.

"Bella, Bella."

It's a mockery, that pet name. She is not la belle anymore. Not with eyes sunken so deep that they seem to shine from black caverns, not with a sallow skin almost as pale as his own, cobwebby jet-black hair perfectly matching the rest of her skeletal frame in creating an image of a model corpse bride.

"Will you not join us in celebrating your grand victory, my Lord?" she blurts out, reverently, wistfully, eyes cast downwards, forehead pressed to his uncovered right shoe.

The question is absurd and they both know it. Yet when he firmly pushes her bony frame aside, she sags in silent disappointment. A pair of dull black coals keeps tracing every step, lingering on every movement of his retreating form, skeletal hands clasped as if she is kneeling to pray. But she is not praying and he doubts if she even knows how.

Once he knew how to pray. Once he used to pray fervently, every evening, because they were told to, because he wanted to see if the so revered God would grant him his wishes.

"_Oh, Sweet Lord, protect this humble house from the wrath of war," _it went, _"and shall Thou decide to chuck a bomb at us, target Mrs. Cole when she takes the other children for a walk while I stay indoors with a cold."_

This or some other childish nonsense.

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The corridors are dark and eerily silent except for the noises coming from downstairs. Spidery hand trails the wall unconsciously as he walks, grazing the sensitive skin without really noticing.

The place is dead.

_Draco dormiens nunquam titilandus. _

Well, he killed the dragon and the beast didn't even know what hit it! And everyone outside believes that the monster is still slumbering peacefully. It will take them days, perchance weeks, to notice with all the clever precautions he put to perfection. By then Hogwarts will have become a fully secured stronghold and virtually unconquerable.

Yet the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry lies dying.

Funny how he never intended this particular thing, never planned to harm the castle. It used to be the only place he would ever protect with his life. Foolish naive ideals of youth when he dreamed of ruling the school and teaching new generations of wizards what truly was important, instructing them to rule over Muggles instead of disgracefully hiding as if the wizards were something less, some shameful abnormality, while the opposite was the truth.

No, the school won't die; he will make sure of it. It will be brought back to life, back to its former glory, just like Salazar Slytherin once dreamed: A school composed of pureblood wizards from the whole country. Yet...there is so little pure breed left...half-bloods would have to be accepted as well, but only if the wizard blood is _noble_ enough, only if they swear to never repeat the grave error of their wizard parent.

A campaign without clear goals is destined to failure.

The pale figure stops, thoughtfully licking a wet ruby pearl off his index finger. Below, light floods the Entrance hall as if a glorious ball was being held there. A winding marble staircase is waiting for Cinderella to trip and lose her glass shoe. Only the poor girl is still sweeping ash in a filthy kitchen and the prince is not interested in common maids.

For a fleeting moment all eyes land on him and are immediately averted, reverently cast downwards. Sound of shuffling and quiet nervous coughing fills the now silent hall as people bow while he slowly descends, taking care not to stumble whilst holding his head regally high, sweeping all his follower with a cold, indifferent gaze.

Some little mudblood faints in the grip of her captor, unconsciously hiking her skirt even higher than a groping hairy hand held it before. She's a petite blonde Hufflepuff, third or fourth year, and looks so out of place pressed against the coarse large man, like an expensive alabaster doll tossed in mud by a spoilt child.

Everyone is watching her now, because their Master is doing so. Eyes feasting on her lily-white innocence, noting a jagged bloody M carved into her pallid cheek - her death sentence.

A mudblood.

Mudbloods and half-bloods, blood-traitors everywhere! What happened to the wizard society? Are the only remaining purebloods truly only his Death Eaters and their children, because the other families would try to kill him on sight and therefore must be considered traitors?

Suddenly he's angry with her. Furious. She is ruining his efforts, sabotaging his dreams! Crimson pools narrow and flare dangerously. The Death Eater holding her releases his grip and, uncomprehending, yet sensible enough to be scared, cowers on the floor.

"Wake her up!"

The crouching man scrambles hurriedly to his feet, but he isn't fast enough.

"Crucio!"

The spell narrowly misses him and hits the fallen girl. She is writhing and squirming, her head hitting the floor every time her body convulses. And everyone is watching her again, as she stops screaming and seems to choke, blood pouring out of her mouth from a bitten tongue.

The spell is lifted; long yew wand disappears in folds of dark velvet as fast as it emerged. People slowly start turning away and resume their previous activities, nervously bowing to the tall ghostly figure as it passes them on his way towards the Great Hall.

The little Hufflepuff is still lying on the floor, unmoving, mewling weakly, pitifully, unseeing forget-me-not eyes gazing vacantly at the ceiling. She is longer the perfect porcelain doll and she no longer cares, nor does she notice the sweaty hot hands squeezing and rubbing her virgin skin anymore.

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_The Great Hall is hot and noisy, just like he remembers it to be. It's again full of people in black robes, chatting, eating and laughing, only these aren't school robes and the house crest is worn on the skin of the forearm.

A huge group of smaller figures wearing black with red, green, blue or yellow and the necessary, now so pointless, house crests pinned to their chests is herded in a far corner. They are sitting or kneeling, their legs hexed to remain in that position, their hands clasped unmoving in their laps for the same reason. Some are sobbing soundlessly, some obviously praying. No one pays them any attention.

Crimson orbs scan the mayhem quickly, searching...searching for he himself knows not what. Adults and children, sea of black, brown, blonde and ginger hair, of black cloth and white faces, all blurred in one huge buzzing, dizzying tumult.

He can barely stand the sight. Abhors it, because it makes him feel uncomfortable, trapped. After thirteen years with hardly more than snakes, spiders and bugs for company the sight, the smell, the sound of this bubbling, swirling cauldron of some hundred people thrown together is overwhelming.

This time, strangely, no one seems to notice the malevolent figure standing in the mammoth doorframe, dwarfed by its monumentality. Everyone would be made tiny, unimportant by the splendour and enormousness of this hall, reduced to a plain ant struggling in a glass box of history. Every one here once walked through these very doors as a bewildered, amazed eleven-year old, unable to take their eyes off the charmed ceiling, which is now ignorantly, serenely clear, strewn with silvery stars.

These walls have ears and eyes, they see and remember everything. After tonight their ears will be deafened by screams, their eyes blinded by tears, yet they are condemned to remain mute, keeping their terrible secret forever.

Across the sea of faces the thoughtful bloody red gaze collides with a shining black one and unintentionally their eyes lock. There, kneeling among the condemned, the doomed, a boy in his late teens is sitting, holding his head up proudly, defiantly. A prefect badge, shining in the dimmed candlelight, is gleaming on his chest, pinned close to a dark green lining of his black school robes. The dark colour sets off his pale, classically handsome features, matches perfectly his raven wavy hair and pitch black, staring eyes. Yet what perversely attracts the Dark Lord's attention is a scar marring this picture of a haughty aristocrat, a single irregular H etched into one of high cheekbones.

Seemingly unblinking, the boy's gaze is full of..._overflowing_ with something unidentifiable, some emotion overpowering fear and pain: a familiar mixture of defiance, stubborn pride, blame and anger directed at the whole world. The half-human observer can vaguely feel something tighten deep, so deep inside, lying buried and forgotten; a mute string quivering weakly when its tone is played nearby.

Angrily he breaks the fragile connection.

Soft, measured clatter of heels belying hot raging fury, caressing whisper of velvety folds and the still standing gigantic castle's entrance doors creak closed again.

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_The gentle breeze is turning colder. Shiny little dots adorn the sky like an expensive golden embroidery on mourning black clothes of a merry widow. The lake smells wetly of fish and mud, of an offer to water the thirsty and refresh the exhausted.

There are still merpeople inside, free to move and left to live, yet the lake has been hexed to become a perfect trap, an aquarium - nothing more than a huge closed swimming pool with no connection whatsoever with the rest of the world. No possibility to call for help, not even to stick their heads above the surface.

It's getting colder but the nighttime visitor doesn't even notice as he slowly, leisurely approaches the lake. To any observer he would seem like a tall black shadow gliding across the dark lawn, an eerie spectre, perhaps a strayed dementor having decided to try its luck and find a still hidden victim.

Noiseless footsteps stop a mere inch short of touching the surface of the lake. Such silence. Not a single ripple ruffles the perfect silver mirror, not a single howl is heard from the dark deep forest, no bird crosses the velvety skies flapping its feathery wings.

The robed man doesn't disturb the eerie stillness. Instead he keeps staring at the reflective depths, a shadow among shadows, unnatural fiery gaze boring into the waters with an intensity of laser beams. A face from nightmares is staring back, unblinking, terrible. The underwater monster's features are expressionless; a wax mask from an old Muggle horror movie, a decaying mutated Inferi floating just below the surface. Only its eyes are alive, dark claret in the dim moonlight, the colour of deoxidised blood, blazing, mocking him with a parody of the emotion seen on the boys face.

Another pair of footsteps, wary and hesitant rather than stealthy, rustles across the lush grass and stops about twenty feet from him.

"Well?" A cold, biting sound to make his annoyance perfectly obvious. No one stalks the Dark Lord; no one spies on Lord Voldemort.

Yet without turning he knows who this person is and instead of anger the knowledge adds a thoughtful frown to the submerged ghastly visage. The intruder waits for a small gesture of acknowledgement and then falls on her knees into the muddy soil covering the immediate edge of the lake.

"My Lord, forgive my intrusion. I..."

The pale thin man doesn't even glance at her, yet he can't help feeling skeletal fingers grasping the hem of his robes and in the process unintentionally, fleetingly, touching his leg though the fabric, a sharp bony shoulder momentarily resting on his knee as she leans down to bow...

"Not now, Bella." And she's shoved aside, gaunt face drowned in incomprehension as she's left watching the ghost-like form slide away again.

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The Forbidden Forest is as dark and foreboding, seemingly deserted yet full of hidden life as any other night. Here and there gleaming eyes of wolves, _werewolves,_ flash from behind a tree or from within the undergrowth, frenzied eyes guarding the forest and the borders of Hogwarts grounds, watching, assessing – more than ready to pounce on any unfortunate intruder.

Noiselessly the beasts fleetingly bow their heads to their passing master, disappearing as if by magic into the night again. He ignores them all, strolling through fallen rotting leaves, dark fabric rustling, slithering across the ground just like...a flash of a memory – _a body shrouded in a too long black robe descending upon a fallen white horse, a unicorn, desperate hunger which food cannot quench..._just like then. Pale fists clench violently, sharp fingernails digging into flesh. And the feeling is gone, buried in the past again, because it _is_ the past - gone, dead and over.

The figure raises his head and chuckles quietly.

The war is not over. This is not the ultimate victory. But he is close, _so_ close now. Virtually unstoppable.

The chuckle turns into a cackle, wild, harsh and hissing. The animals that hear it tense, and cower or scurry away as the maniacal laughter rings through the forest.

The sound almost manages to silence the tiny part of the half-mad half-genius mind that can't help wondering if victory is always so bittersweet.

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Author Note:**

Please excuse any spelling or grammar mistakes as English is not my native language.

Feedback is appreciated. Therefore Read&Review, if you can.

Thank you and we do hope you've enjoyed your stay.


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